The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. " "Anything else, Sir?" "No:—stay! you'd better not bring up any silver forks or spoons. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap to their work because you have been with me. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. ” “Then I was never married to him at all?” Annabel said.
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